1.The Assassin eats breakfast.It's a Holy watch that's wrapped around his wrist.He smokes a Holy spliff.He washes his legs and makes himself perfect and beautiful.He knows what he kills for.He thinks his body is a gooey machine.He has a raspberry milkshake and washes his hand and puts on his spacesuit.

2.Vagueness at the edge of the table.It's a temperature that's always changing.A prick on the fingertip draws a little bloodwhich engages the boot process in the basic input/output system of the ship's central computer.

The Assassin tells himself he doesn't get lonely and tries not to think about raspberry milkshakes during his voyage to Ohio.

3.I think about the Assassinwhile getting into my thin rubber stereosuit.He has different faces for everyone.He's sinister because he seems so harmless.He thinks things are Endless.He thinks with his joints and his knucklesand uses a radical rubber dogmato propel himself through the the thin sewers of Terminal Filth.

5.Contracting vessels pull jets of lively electric blood through the system.A novain the left iris scatters golden green apples across your superscape eyes.You look at me and it fills my veins with your enflamed bloodand my skin takes on the texture of yours.Life explodes from every shadow and porous corner,out from every tipped-over bottle and from under every cigarette pack.Your perfumed blood beats in my brainlike the buttery pulse of wetness at the edge of my island.

6.The Assassin has the luxury of seeing life as just a game.He doesn't know the stakes.Treats people like pieces,tricks them into trading places.Always secretly terrifiedof the wetness at the edges of his eyelidsthe sea that threatens to engulf his everything.His nylon skin shrinks from contact.His tiny fingers try to look meticulous.He wants to believe in something other than an anchorless ship on a portless ocean.Poor Fool. Pitiful idiot. Poverty of the heart like all those demanding vacant mirror-eyes that glare down from the scrapers that make up the Superscape.It takes a telescope to see his facial expressions,rubber arrows running down his dimples when he scowls,populating microscopic Cities with hateful little would-be hitlers.

8.You wake up in a shiny clinical environment,a room with a chair and a television set.The chair is bolted to the middle of floor and set facing the TV which is built-in to the wall.The TV is off.You sit in the chair and the TV turns on.You see me on the screen, walking diagonally against the rainclutching the Moth to my chestto keep its eyelids dry,trying not to show the audience my smile, somehow proud of my pathetic posture.Now you start to see what i can live throughwhat i can endure.I say hi to Kyle and let him see the Moth.He tells me what kinds of water will be good for the following weekand brings me up to speed on the coup against the Red King.You see me climbing chainlink fences with different-colored ponds behind themfrantic as the little moth dries up in my red arms.Up to my neck in Assassin's gelatinous blood,you see the Assassin crouched over my dirty bodyplucking out shiny white porcelain intestines from my laughing stomach.I'm squirming because it feels so hilarious.

I am the pond in the valley.All the animals drink from my Stomachbringing water from me and putting it on to the Ground.

TAROT POEM ZEROPART IV

1.Cut to long shot of the valley,hemmed-in breezes play with the treetopslike Your fingers in My hair.It's almost as if I can see You in that clean little roomleaning forward in the chair, blowing onto the screen.One of seven fountains gurgles up bursts of pus (the healing ooze that binds broken-skin).You can't stand seeing the animals crowded in a circle around me, eating the entrails out of my stomach.You stand up and the screen goes to black.You pace around the room for a few minutesbreathing quietly to yourself.At length you go back to the chair again.The TV turns on the instant you sit back down.You see me on the screen, walking sideways against the rainclutching the Moth to my chest to keep its eyelid-wings dry.I keep calling but nobody answers.Maybe because my phone is a soaking wet slice of pizza.I realize this as I watch a dollop of marinara creep over my wrist and slide down my skinny arm.It hesitates when it gets to my elbow,a perfect balancebetween gravity's siren songand fear of a great distancea perfect spell, an absolute silence broken by a stray slice of mushroom adding its weight to the sauce.

Thus the falling valley dines on Gravity's Surloin Song.

2.-- Cut to aerial long shot of hills and treetops --

You see the Valley hug the Moon to its breast.It's tongue weather between the hills tonight.The Moon makes it all look smooth like wet porcelain.You see the pond slowly lift its chunky bodyto do a small dance in the gooey lunar glowundulating to the humof the hillsides' salad song,each blade of grass a tiny trumpeta gathered particle of light.Marinara fountains from the stomach,spouts from the summit and runs red legs down the dimples in the hills.A cloud hangs its chunky body over the Valleyand fills itself with luminous moonglow.The hillside oscillates between existence and oblivionas cloudshadows play tag across its treetopsmaking branches into faceswhispering secret Sapien Songs.

3.Camera shows you the valley through the eyes of the Moth this time.You step through the screen and onto the grassclutching your mesh eyelids/To stifle the blinding and luminous tremelo.You see the hills in italics-- almost falling over.You see the Valley's soily stomach gently heaving giant breaths.You feel terrified of this pregnant silence,swollen in a perfect tension balance between inhale and exhalebetween the urge to exist and the urge to contain.You look into my eyes-- one eye shows my love of everything the other shows my hatred for it all.So you look at my mouth insteadbecause at least it can laugh and cry at the same timewithout having to oscillate.

4.We see Sun and Moon hanging in the same Sky.It must be either Dusk or Dawn.Or both.Or neither.Or all of the above.We've been chewing on this strange, warm root for I think weeks now.huddled together in a cavern in the underbrushtrading Sapien Songs from tongue to tongue.Huddled under the Moth's doublewide wingssending up curious children's looks to the sky's double-burning eyeballs.The root we chew is still attached to the Earthand seems to go a ways down, to some pretty old secrets.We mewl and paw at the little mountains of dirt that make up our bedsending tiny songs upward in a cheshire crescendo,a silver-toothed crescent smile,until the eyelid-winged Moth,out child, home and protectorgets fed up with our dumb danceand Abandons usand ascends to lid the Valley's double-burning eyes with its wide paper wingsleaving us shivering naked in the windwith our tongues folding over themselvesover and over until a tiny hole opens up in the bottom of the Pond slowly sucking everything down spinning the trees and animals down into itself in a dizzy dance of terror/ecstasy sucks the City down from the sky until the whole Thing's drained as if it's left unsaid.

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çâ§§ïd¥ ®í°s kæⁿ// person who does different creative-type stuff // editor at mannequin haus // informally educated // freezeframe of being lifted gently from a bog of liquid gum // assembled from specks of ??? found adorning common surfaces // https://www.instagram.com/lvrkwvrk/